Flight
by SeventhLegend
Summary: Fox McCloud dreams of someday following in his father's footsteps and joining the Corneria Flight Academy. When an unexpected invasion shatters the peace of his home however, Fox finds that he can't choose when his time will come. The only choices left to him are what he will stand for and who he will stand with.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **_This will be my first attempt at writing a story for Starfox. I've felt the makings of a story just out of reach for a while now, but recently it all just came together, and, well, here we are. I currently have two other stories I'm working on, so regular updates on this one won't begin for a little while. Consider this chapter a preview of things to come._

_ For those unfamiliar with my update schedule, I generally try to get a new chapter up every week to two weeks, barring unforeseen hurricanes/power outage/lethargy. The end. The beginning. Enjoy._

**Obligatory Hypocritical Disclaimer:**_ Starfox does not belong to me; if you do not understand the meaning of fanfiction then this may come as a shock to you._

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**FLIGHT**

**Chapter One**

Dawn trails its fingers over the planet Corneria. touching the fields and treetops gently through a veil of mist. Golden light refracts through water droplets on the window pane, casting tiny rainbows over the walls of the room. Inside, in a bed tucked away from the light on the other side of the room, someone stirs.

The fox opens one eye blearily. He squints at the glowing face of his alarm clock, trying to decipher the numerals. Then he grunts and closes his eyes again, determined to savor his last few minutes of sleep before the alarm goes off. A few moments of blissful quiet go by, broken only by the sound of his own steady breathing and something rattling downstairs. A thought slowly works its way from the back of his mind out into the open, and his eyes snap open suddenly. _Shit! My lab report!_

Fox McCloud pushes himself upright, his mind returning from whatever state of warm obliviousness it had previously been enjoying. He groans aloud, remembering the homework assignment he was supposed to have completed the night before. _Bill's going to kill me_, he thinks glumly. _Hell, Mr. Gordon is gonna kill _both_ of us. I hope Bill at least did his half._ Reluctantly putting his feet down on the freezing bare wood floor, he rises and pads over to the window.

Outside the glass the early morning sunlight cuts through last night's mist, turning the grass and the needles of the pines outside a glittering gold. He smiles a little despite his situation. _Maybe I won't take the bus today. It's not so bad outside. _

…

It really isn't so bad, and as Fox zips up his jacket and steps out into the mid-May air he finds himself glad that he passed up the bus this morning. There's a faint breeze, and it tousles his fur as he sets off over the first low hill.

The high school he's headed to this morning isn't particularly large, and the teachers who come in every day to earn their paychecks aren't any more competent than the ones at any other school, but neither of those things matter much to Fox. There's one thing that makes school worth showing up to each morning: Flight Initiative. Flight Initiative, or just FI as everybody without a pole up their ass calls it, was the brainchild of some war veteran who had been able to see that a good number of kids went through school with the sole purpose of heading on the the Corneria Flight Academy, and as such didn't give half a damn about calculus or what an endoplasmic reticulum was. This unnamed veteran had also realized that four years is a long time to put up with bullshit you don't care about so that you can do something you really don't know anything about. What they needed, he decided, was one period a day, a few times a week, where the rest of their time at school was made to seem more worthwhile. They needed a class where they could feel like they were making progress toward a goal they actually cared about, and becoming more prepared for the Academy during the progress. That was how the FI was born.

Sure, you don't get to actually fly, but it's the next best thing as far as Fox is concerned. In FI you learn how an Arwing works inside and out. You learn the layout of the cockpit, the intricacies of thrust and drag, and get at least a vague idea of how not to kill yourself on your first real flight. More than that, you learn military protocol, tactics and strategy, and get an idea of different positions available to cadets after the Academy.

Fox runs over his schedule in his mind. _Math, chemistry—shit—history, literature, lunch, and FI is last. Maybe I can do my report during math. Maybe I'll have time before class starts._ Fox sighs, cresting the hill and starting down the slope, his paws sinking into the dew-laden grass. He reaches into his pocket, retrieving his music player and earphones. He screws the buds into his ears, flicking through his music library as the grass turns into pine forest around him. He slips the mp3 player back into his pocket, breathing in the damp, spicy scent of pine needles as the opening bars of the song reverberate in his ears. Soon he's floating, lost in the churning guitar and pounding drums, the cool air on his face and the smell of the trees blending together as he strides on toward school, the unwritten lab report forgotten once more.

…

Fox's reverie is broken as something hits him from behind, nearly knocking him over. He gives a cry of alarm, twisting around to see a face full of pointy teeth grinning back at him. Fox readjusts his backpack, trying to regain his composure as he scowls at the smiling face. "It's you," he says by way of greeting. "I should have known."

"Yup," says the canine, falling into step beside him. "That's me. A fact of life."

"You're more like a natural danger, Wolf O'Donnel," says Fox, finding himself unable to stay aggravated.

"Smoking," replies Wolf unabashedly, holding up a lit cigarette. He gives Fox a questioning look.

"No thanks," says Fox, eying the dubious-looking paper roll. "Is that even tobaco in there?"

"Maybe," says Wolf, giving Fox what he must think is a devilish grin.

Fox shakes his head, smiling back despite himself. That's Wolf for you. Sometimes he takes his not-a-care-in-the-world shtick too far and it gets him and everyone around him in deep shit, but most of time he's just, well, Wolf.

"Just thought I'd enjoy the morning," continues the canine. He reaches over and plucks the earbud out of Fox's ear, sticking it into his own. "Did you do the chem homework?"

"No," says Fox. "And I bet you didn't either. I almost feel bad for Slippy. He ought to get some kind of medal for being your lab partner."

"Ahh, he needs to loosen up," says Wolf dismissively. "Hey, is this the new Fifth Era album?"

Fox nods. "Yeah, I downloaded it the other night. Do you have it yet?"

"Nope. It's good though. You should make me a copy."

Fox rolls his eyes. He is forever making Wolf copies of records that his friend refuses to actually buy for some reason. "Fine," he says. "But I don't know how you're going to get music when I'm not around anymore."

"What, you going somewhere?" asks Wolf jokingly.

_Yeah, and you're not_, thinks Fox. He instantly feels bad for the thought, especially since he knows it's probably true. Wolf's chances of getting into the academy don't look good right now, and Fox knows that like him his friend dreams of being a pilot someday. He pushes the thought away, saying instead: "All I'm saying is, if you don't see me in FI today check Mrs. Ernst's room for my body. We're doing plays again in lit today."

…

Math class passes painfully slowly. Fox sits slumped forward with his chin resting on his hands as his teacher carries on and on about the importance of double-checking work, which morphs into a lecture about minimums and maximums. The formulas and terms fill Fox's head but refuse to assemble themselves into any sort of rational order, instead milling around and around until he stops listening all together, hopelessly confused. The second hand slides down from the twelve to the three, putting on the brakes as it nears the six and then, finding itself unable to regain its momentum, resigns itself to a hard struggle back up to the nine, seeming near the point of collapse as it reaches to twelve and with relief begins the downhill stretch again.

Fox watches the clock hands move with near-hypnosis, his mind full of fuzzy static that breaks at the sound of the bell, just in time for his ears to pick up "-and the quiz will be on Tuesday, or perhaps Wednesday, so be sure to study your notes!" Fox looks down at his blank notebook page and then sighs in resignation, throwing his things into his bag and squeezing out into the throng of students in the hallway.

He makes it to his next class without being trampled or mugged, which is a good start by his standards, and sinks into his seat at the table next to his friend Ben.

"You didn't write your half of the report, did you?" asks Ben as Fox takes his seat.

"No," replies Fox, laying his head down on the table. "Sorry, it just didn't happen. I meant to, but..."

"I know," reassures the gray-furred canine. "I didn't do mine either. There was a big cageball game on last night."

"Was there?" asks Fox absent-mindedly. He seems to remember someone mentioning it to him.

"You're kidding, right? It was the regional finals! Everybody was watching it."

"Even Wolf?"

"That's different," Ben scowls. "I don't think Wolf has a TV."

"What about Slippy?"

"That doesn't count either! Come on Fox, don't tell me you didn't at least see _some_ of it."

Fox shrugs apathetically. He's saved from having to think of a further response when their teacher, Mr. Gordon, clears his throat loudly at the front of the room. "Everybody sit down! Who's absent today?"

"Me!" calls out a wise-ass from the back of the room, whom everyone ignores.

"Slippy," says Mr. Gordon, his eyes scanning the room and stopping at an empty seat next to a nervous-looking amphibian. "Where's you lab partner?"

"I—I don't know," squeaks Slippy. "He was supposed to have the other half of our lab report, but I haven't seen him all day." The young toad looks near tears.

"Alright, alright," placates Mr. Gordon. "Settle down, if he's not here he's not—"

The door swings open and a wolf in gray khakis and a ragged bomber jacket swaggers inside. "Morning," he says nonchalantly, kicking the door shut with his foot and sliding into the seat beside Slippy.

"Wolf," Fox hears Slippy whisper extremely loudly. "Where were you? Do you have the report?"

Wolf offers Slippy a beatific smile. "Nope!" he says happily.

"Wolf!" wails Slippy. "It was _homework_! You _have_ to do it!"

Fox turns away, dropping his head back to the tabletop to hide his amusement. _Poor Slippy_, he thinks as their teacher attempts to collect the reports. The rest of the class goes by at its usual snail's pace as Mr. Gordon tries his best to get a bunch of teenagers to care about writing equations for polyatomic atoms. Fox tries, but the class passes in a blur of subscripts and suffixes and positive and negative charges, leaving him just as mystified as he was at its start. As the bell rings and the class begins to file out he turns to Ben, a pleading expression on his face. "Please tell me you understood _any_ of that," he says.

The canine shrugs. "Something about electrons?"

"This is hopeless," complains Fox, pulling himself out of the chair. "What are we going to do when we have a test?"

"Fail," offers Ben helpfully.

"That's great," says Fox. "My uncle will love that. Do you think I should tell him my plan now, or let it surprise him?"

"I'm going for surprise. My mom doesn't jog much anymore. Seeing a few F's on my report card will be good cardio for her."

…

Lunch beckons like an island on the horizon, and when it finally comes Fox is so relieved he nearly leaves his bag behind. The previous day's clouds have returned, and there's a chill in the air that drives most of the students inside for lunch. Fox and his friends make for their usual table, and Fox takes his usual seat, looking out the window into the wooded lot that surrounds the back of the school. He half listens as Slippy berates Wolf over the missing assignment and Bill goes on and on about the cageball match, his thoughts elsewhere. The clouds are beginning to darken outside, and Fox thinks he can sense rain coming. Maybe even a storm. He frowns, catching a glimpse of blue out of the corner of his eye. Craning his neck for a better look, he notices a jacketed figure, an avian with eye-catching blue feathers seated in the grass with his back against a tree a good distance away from the school. He elbows Bill, interrupting an anecdote on teams that don't use their goal keepers effectively. "Hey, you see that guy out there?"

Bill raises his head, and Fox turns back to the window just in time to see the figure disappear around the corner of the building. "Who, the bird?" asks Bill. "Does he go to school here?"

"I don't know," says Fox. "I've never seen him before."

Bill shrugs disinterestedly, turning back to Wolf, who had been pretending to listen to his cageball story. Fox's eyes linger on the window a moment longer. He wonders who the mysterious avian was, and then he wonders why he's interested. _This school's not that small,_ he reminds himself. _There are lots of kids here I don't know by sight. Well, maybe not lots. A few, at least. _Still, he's unable to dispel a sense of vague curiosity, which sticks with him throughout the rest of the lunch period.

…


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I think updates are going to start now. I have no idea how It's going to work out since I have three stories going now, but I will give it my best shot. In the mean time, I give you Chapter Two.**

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**Chapter Two**

FI is the last period in Fox's day, and when he steps inside the classroom he finds at least one of his questions answered. The blue-feathered avian is seated in the middle of the room, his elbows resting on the desk, pouring over a set of photocopied diagrams. Fox takes his own seat, in the front left corner, and Bill and Wolf file in shortly after. "There's your new guy," whispers Bill as he slips into his seat next to Fox. "Looks like he thinks his own wings aren't good enough."

Fox half smiles, half winces at the terrible joke. He finds his eyes drawn back to their new classmate, studying him curiously. The avian looks up suddenly, his blue eyes glaring at Fox with such intensity that Fox immediately drops his gaze, reaching for his backpack and shuffling through some papers to hide his embarrassment at being caught staring.

In a few moments the FI instructor, a retired air force sergeant, enters the room and the class begins. "Alright," he calls, stepping up to his desk at the front of the room. "Sit down and shut up!"

Fox smiles. He likes sergeant Aspen. The man has a no-nonsense sort of personality, which is refreshing in a school dominated by nonsense.

The sergeant looks down at the roster on his desk. "Is everyone here? No, Charlie's absent. Probably too hung over to come to school, heh," he chuckles to himself. He looks up, gray eyes surveying the classroom. "Ah, yes. We have a new student with us today, ladies and gentlemen. This is … " he looks down at the list. " … Falco Lombardi. Pleased to meet you, Falco. I'm sergeant Aspen, but just 'Sir' will do. You know anything about Arwings?"

"No, sir," answers Falco, meeting the sergeant's eyes. There's a hint of defiance in his voice, as if challenging anyone to question him.

"That's fine," says Aspen. "I'll get you paired up with one of the other students so you can catch up. If you're a quick learner it won't take long. As for the rest of you," he says, redirecting his attention to the rest of the class. "Today is battle day. We'll be looking at the Battle of Katina, and you have half an hour to write me a page describing why commander Tellias was incompetent and what the first Cornerian strike force _should_ have done. Handouts and battle maps are on my desk. Come get 'em!"

Fox gets up from his seat, joining the line of students in the front of the room. As he reaches for his papers the intercom crackles. "Mr.—-mm-hmm," the voice coughs. "_Sergeant_ Aspen, please report to the main office."

Aspen looks up to the speaker, his brow furrowing. Fox can tell he's noticed the thinly veiled sarcasm hanging from "sergeant," but he doesn't say anything. Instead he strides toward the door, calling back gruffly to his class. "I'll be back soon. Don't kill each other, please." Then he's out into the hallway, leaving the door open behind him.

Fox returns to his desk, laying the thin stack of paper out before him. There's a set of three battle maps, formations of Arwings and gunships sketched out with symbols and sweeping, convoluted lines of attack. The remaining papers offer a brief account of the battle, listing the key events in chronological order. Fox stares at the maps, trying to visualize the scene playing out before him, starships swooping and diving like huge metal birds of prey, trailing wakes of light and fire. He is so entranced by the image that he nearly forgets what he is supposed to be doing. He shakes his head, taking out a clean sheet of paper and his pen.

As fox uncaps his pen and lowers it to the page to begin writing, something makes him pause. He looks up, his eyes darting across the room to where Falco is sitting. The avian is sitting slouched forward with his elbows on his knees, his beak a few inches from the desk. His eyes move back and forth over the maps in front of him, narrowed nearly into slits. Fox feels a strange sort of queasiness in the pit of his stomach as he watches the avian, a barely perceptible twisting feeling that fades back away as soon as he notices it. He sits unmoving for a moment, uncertain what to make of the feeling and at the same time uncertain if it was really there. Then he remembers: Aspen hasn't paired Falco up with anybody. He must be completely lost.

Fox rises, taking his papers and his pen with him. He slips between the desks, dropping into an empty seat next to Falco. The avian doesn't notice him at first, his attention focused on the jumble of lines and shapes in front of him. Fox drops his pen onto the desk top loudly, but it fails to attract Falco's attention. He clears his throat. "Hi."

The avian looks up, and Fox's voice suddenly sounds extremely awkward in his ears. "Um," he says intelligently. "Aspen didn't get to pair you up with anyone. I thought you might want some help."

Falco's eyes flash. "I don't need anyone's help," he says sharply. "I'll figure it out."

Fox nods, his ears burning. "Right, I didn't think you'd have trouble, it's just that you wouldn't know how to read the maps if you hadn't taken this class before. So I could, um, show you how. If you want. We could work together." _Why am I saying this?_ He thinks. _This was a terrible idea. I'm being an idiot, what am I even over here for? He doesn't want help, and I've just ruined any chance I had of- _

"Alright," says the avian, his tone grudging. "I, well, I haven't ever read these maps before. But I can learn," he adds defiantly.

"Sure," says Fox, shifting his desk closer to Falco's. "It's not too hard, it just looks really complicated." In the back of his head a voice is asking: _Ruined any chance I had of _what_? _Fox can't think of any suitable answer though, so he ignores the voice and spreads out his battle maps. "These triangles represent Arwings," he says, pointing out a cluster of shapes on the map. "And this is the basic defensive formation they're in."

"A semicircle," grunts Falco.

"Yeah, in real life it would be a hemisphere," says Fox. "They form up that way, concave side out, when they're facing enemy fighters. The edges spread out like feelers, and when the fighters get close enough the middle of the formation pulls back and the outer rings tighten up."

"Like a net."

"Exactly," says Fox, pleased that Falco has picked up the concept. "So they've got those set up here, here, and here."

Falco squints at the map. "They're guarding the bigger ships."

"Yes! Those, the ovals, are mid-size gunships."

"But why are the fighters guarding them then? There are … five groups of Arwings, so why did they waste three on ships that can defend themselves perfectly well?"

"Well, gunships can be overwhelmed by groups of small one-man fighters, but usually they only have a guard of two or three fighters. You're right, this is too many. The last two formations-"

"The attack formations."

"Yeah," says Fox, impressed at the avian's speed. "See, they aren't getting the support they need from the gunships. The friendly Arwings are getting all in the way of the gunships' aim, and they can't lock with the enemy ships."

"The big ones?"

"Yeah, the two rectangles, destroyers. If the Cornerians had freed up their fighters they could have had two or three groups harass the destroyers while the rest held off the fighters, and the gunships could have given support the way they were supposed to."

"And instead the commander freaked about the gunships and wasted all his fighters defending them. They couldn't do anything, and there weren't enough Arwings left to keep the destroyers from wrecking them."

"That's it!" exclaims Fox, breaking into a grin. "We write that down and we've got a perfect grade, I know it."

Falco leans back in his seat, looking pleased with himself. "It wasn't that hard," he says coolly.

As Fox is scribbling down their analysis of the battle he hears the tread of boots coming up the hallway. He looks up in time to see sergeant Aspen storm into the room and over to Wolf's desk. "Come with me, Mr. O'Donnel," he growls, hauling the protesting Wolf up by his forearm.

Fox watches with half-worry and half-amusement as his friend is marched out of the room. "I wonder what that's about," he mutters, returning to his paper.

"You know him?" asks Falco as he writes.

"Yeah," says Fox, pausing as he tries to decide what exactly a semi-colon is for and how close a relationship he should be having with it. "He's one of my best friends," he continues, scribbling out the dot and changing the comma into an over-sized period. "This kind of thing happens fairly often. He's just one of those people, you know?"

Aspen returns a few minutes later, minus one Wolf O'Donnel. He comes in the room shaking his head, and blows out a breathy sigh as he sinks into his desk chair. "Alright," he calls," running a hand through the fur on his head. "Let's have those papers, shall we? Come on, if they're not done by now they're not going to get any better. Give 'em up."

He collects the papers, having to yank them away forcibly from a few students who are feverishly adding in last-minute addendums. Striding back up to the front of the room, he dumps the papers on his desk and uncaps a whiteboard marker. "Okay. Let's take a look at this." He lays out a sketch of the battle and begins his explanation, which is almost word-for-word the same as the one Fox and Falco had worked out. Fox smiles, satisfied at their effort, and shoots Falco a glance, feeling slightly deflated when the avian doesn't acknowledge him.

Aspen ends his lecture, and just as he finishes speaking the intercom crackles once more. "Good afternoon students and staff members," drawls the voice of one of the many superfluous assistant principals. "Just a few afternoon announcements. The cageball meeting will be after school today in room two forty-one. All students interested in joining the cageball team should attend. There will be a meeting of the book club in the library at two thirty this afternoon. The meeting of the, uh, 'vegan alliance' group has been postponed indefinitely, which I am sure comes as a great disappointment to everybody.

"One final note: please mark that the time is now one fifty-six. Dismissal is at two o'clock precisely. Students are to remain in their classrooms until the bell, _thank you._" The speaker clicks after the rather pointed "thank you," leaving the classroom quite once again.

Sergeant Aspen looks up calculatingly at the clock. He looks back down at the students, most of whom are groaning and rolling their eyes. "You're all young," he says at last. "And it's a fine spring day out there. Me, I'm old, too old to keep track of time properly." He looks back up at the clock and shrugs. "Looks like two o'clock to me."

Fox blinks at the suddenly empty classroom. Smiling to himself, he zips up his bag and heads for the door behind Falco. Aspen stops him on his way out, laying a hand on his shoulder before he can step out the door. Fox turns around half way. "Sir?"

"Thanks for taking care of the new kid today," says Aspen. "He's sharp, but he still needs someone to get him acquainted with all the specifics we deal with. I want you to stay partnered with him for the rest of the week." The sergeant peers out into the hallway, then drops his voice. "You're the best pilot in the class, Fox, and damn near the best I've seen in years. It's not surprising of course, and I know that's what's hard about it. You're carrying a hell of a lot of expectations, and I'm very pleased to see you living up to them. With you working with Lombardi, at the speed he's learning, he'll be caught up to us within a week. 'Course, we're not as far as we would be without some of the morons in this class …" Aspen shakes his head, smiling. "Anyway, you did good today. Will you stick with him?"

Fox nods. "Sure. I mean, yes, sir."

Aspen claps him on the back. "Good! Now get the hell out of here. It's not natural, the way we keep you all cramped inside all day."

…

The "fine spring day" turns out to be chilly and damp. Biting winds are blowing dark gray clouds in from the north, darkening the tops of the conifers as they wave and bend. Fox pulls his jacket up around his chin, his ears flattening down against his head as he pushes out into the wind. He looks around, catching sight of Bill and Slippy fighting their way across the front field to the road. He jogs to catch up, arriving beside them breathless and panting. "Hey," yells Bill, raising his voice to be heard over the whistling of the wind. "What'd Aspen keep you after for?"

"He wants me to partner with Falco for the rest of the week."

"Who?"

"Falco, the new guy. The avian."

"Oh," says Bill, sounding as if he has just discovered something unpleasant in his soup. "The bird. Well, Wolf won't be happy."

"Yeah, I know," Fox agrees glumly. "He was looking forward to flight day. I guess he'll have to partner with someone else. There's only two to a ship, obviously."

"How'd you get set up with that deal, anyway?" asks Bill as the first drops of freezing rain begin to hit their faces.

"Aspen said someone needed to get him caught up," replies Fox. "Why, what's the matter?"

"Nothing," says Bill, giving a dry laugh. "I just feel sorry for you is all. 'What do you know about Arwings?' "Jack shit, _sir!'_ That's not going to be a fun flight day."

"Knock it off," says Fox, feeling oddly defensive. "He's already picked up more than most people have on their first day. It won't take long to get him on our level."

"Oh, okay." Bill raises his hands in mocking repentance. "I didn't realize you liked him that much, Fox. Must have been love at first sight, huh?"

"Shut up," snarls Fox, horrified to feel his ears tingling again. He turns his face away, and as he does he catches sight of a flash of blue off by the small parking lot. Sensing the perfect opportunity to make an escape, he alters his course and heads for the lot. "See you later."

"Bye, Fox," says Slippy.

"Where are you going?" Bill calls after him. "Aren't you taking the bus?"

"My uncle's picking me up," Fox lies. Right now he can't stand the thought of listening to Bill Grey for another fifteen minutes. Even walking home in the cold is preferable. He walks through the grass to the asphalt lot at the side of the school. Just beyond it the pine forest begins, starting out sparse and growing thicker as the hills begin. On the other side of the lot Falco is making his way down the drive, the collar of his jacket turned up against the wind.

"Hey," Fox calls, quickening his pace as he draws nearer. The avian half-turns, not slowing his stride. He's headed away from the buses down the school road, which leads down to the main road, which takes a long and winding route up to the town proper. It's a long and cold walk to wherever somebody might live. "Do you need a ride?" asks Fox, forgetting that he doesn't have one either. "This rain's only going to get worse."

Falco laughs sharply. "What, are you my official guardian now? Don't bother, no one's watching." He turns his back on Fox and continues on down the road.

"I didn't—" says Fox. He slows to a stop, watching the avian's back recede into the distance. "I didn't mean it that way," he tells himself quietly, the sound getting lost in the wind. He blinks, then turns away, hunching his shoulders and starting off toward home, trying to ignore the sick feeling in his stomach.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

By the time Fox heaves open his back door and stumbles into the kitchen he is thoroughly frozen. He slides the door shut with numb hands and shakes his head vigorously to dispel the water droplets collecting in the fur between his ears. Shivering, he hangs his jacket on the back of a chair and climbs the stairs to the bathroom, where he tugs off his waterlogged shirt and scrubs everything scrubbable with a towel until he feels more like a fox and less like some kind of fish.

With warm, dry clothes on Fox comes back down the stairs and checks the kitchen counter for a note from his uncle. He finds the note in its usual place.

_ Fox-_

_ May be back at seven. May not be back at seven. There is probably something in the freezer. If Gerald calls, tell him __to fuck himself_ (A line is scratched through the last statement, presumably as his annoyance wore off for a moment and he thought better of it)_I'm not home, nor will be for the foreseeable future._

_ Try to do your homework. Don't start any fires. If Gerald calls, you'd better just not answer the phone._

_ -Peppy_

Fox smiles a little. He can picture his uncle standing here earlier this morning, biting the end of his pencil and trying to figure out what sort of thing you were supposed to tell teenagers when you left them alone for the whole day. Peppy's not his real uncle, of course. The old hare bears no genetic relation to him, but he was one of his father's closest friends and the closest thing Fox has to family.

Peppy works as a consultant for the Cornerian interspace navy, and his job often keeps him out so late Fox doesn't see him at all. His retirement has come and passed without any apparent change in daily routine. Whenever Fox or anyone else asks him about this he replies that he's "just straightening things up," or "tying up a few loose ends." He's been tying up loose ends for close to two years now.

Fox leans his elbows on the counter top and stares out the window at the dark gray sky and the trees swaying in the wind. Rain pummels the glass in waves, the muted impacts blending into a continuous rolling crash. Fox's eyes lose focus as his mind wanders, images wrapped in blue feathers filling his mind. He hisses in frustration, low in the back of his throat. Why is he so hung up on this? What was it that made him act like such an idiot today? He straightens up, pushing back from the counter. _It doesn't make any sense. Better just to forget about it, just one of those days._ Still, there's that little voice nagging him. _If it's just one of those days then why can't you get his face out of your head? _Fox shakes his head, exasperation mounting. _It's nothing. Just leave it alone!_

…

A valiant attempt is made at the homework, but in the end chemical equations prove the victor and the paper is crumpled up and stuffed half-finished into Fox's backpack. The rain picks up, throwing itself against the windows as if trying to smash them in, and half an hour later it is still pouring down, blending in with the sound of Fox's amplifier as he sits cross-legged on his bedroom floor wringing out his aching wrist.

He leans back against the side of his bed, closing his eyes and listening to the wash of noise outside. The latest Fifth Era album is at least twice as good as the last, and it seems to him that the new songs are twice as fast and complicated. Fox is determined to learn all of them, but after thirty minutes his right hand is already aching.

He lets the last note ring, listening as it trembles in the air, fading slowly away to nothing. The sound is empty to his ears somehow, a structure standing alone in space with no ground beneath it._ I'm missing the bass_, he thinks, feeling more sadness than he should. Perhaps it is because there is also no drummer and no rhythm guitar and no vocalist, and he is sitting alone in his uncle's attic with nobody but the rain to accompany him. The sense of something _missing_ picks at his mind, not something obvious that he might have forgotten but more like a deep, subtle loss that has always been there and he has only just noticed. As Fox looks at the glass in the window without properly seeing the trees he has the sudden feeling that _he_ is the guitar, playing a song that he has just noticed the gap in. _A song never really sounds right without the bass. _

A drop of watter slides down along the glass, loosing speed and then gaining it again as another drop comes smashing into it from up the trail. Fox watches with his thoughts turned inward. The missing feeling intensified, throbbing at him, and he feels that its meaning is just out of its grasp, taunting him from beyond his reach. He sits there against the bed for a long time, the guitar buzzing quietly in his hands and the rain hammering on the roof and the window outside.

…

The next morning Fox descends the stair case to find Peppy already awake for once, sitting at the kitchen table with a coffee mug and a newspaper. He grunts as Fox enters the kitchen, gesturing vaguely with a piece of toast. "Morning. There's coffee in the thing, might be some bread left."

"Why are you up so early?" asks Fox, reaching himself down a mug from the shelf.

"Hmm," says the hare, blowing out a quick, irritated breath. "Funny you should mention it. Gerald called yesterday, and since _someone_ left the answering machine plugged in, he left a message."

"Isn't that what the answering machine is for?" asks Fox, bemused. He lifts the lid of the bread box and then closes it again as a forest of blue mold smiles back at him.

"Hmm. Well. That's what it was _intended_ for," grumbles Peppy. "But what it is in fact is a machine that allows people to talk to you regardless of whether or not you wish to speak to _them._ And of course, now that I've heard his message I won't be able to pretend I didn't. You know how bad I am at lying." The last comment is directed pointedly at Fox.

"What's he want you to do?"

"Another one of his useless fits of paranoia. Wants me up at the observatory at ten this morning to look at some damnable photos of absolutely nothing. _Ten in the morning._ Does he think I enjoy having to get up at this ungodly hour?"

Fox shoots a glance at the clock, which is displaying the ungodly hour of ten past six. He rolls his eyes. "Right, no one we know ever gets up that early."

"Mm," agrees Peppy around a mouthful of toast. "Some people are just born unreasonable, Fox. They should be avoided at all costs, because they enjoy nothing more than spreading their unreason into your life."

"I'll remember that," says Fox, gripping his steaming mug as he squints out the window. Pure blackness fills the front yard, stretching all the way to the tiny island of the street lamp at the end of their driveway.

"You're taking the bus this morning, aren't you?" asks Peppy. "It's been pouring since last night."

"Yeah," replies Fox. "You going to be home tonight?"

"Depends how many photos of random space junk Gerald forces on me. Could be early, could be late." Peppy pauses, his eyes traveling over yesterday's business page. "Hey," he says suddenly. "You get a new student yesterday?"

Fox freezes, his coffee cup halfway to his mouth. "Yeah," he says slowly, forcing his voice to stay casual and at the same time wondering why it needs his help. "How'd you know?"

"We just got a new guy down at the Tinfoil Hat Emporium," explains Peppy, using his favorite

euphemism for the Extraplanetary Threat Defense Agency. "Atreus Lombardi. Real smart guy, has a whole bag full of degrees and qualifications. Anyway, he mentioned he has a son around your age. You see him around school?"

"I've seen him," says Fox carefully.

"Well, you'd better get going," says Peppy, glancing up at the clock. "Wear a raincoat, will you?"

"Whole school's going to smell like damp fur today anyway," sighs Fox, setting down his cup. He's suddenly feeling even less like going to school this morning, for reasons that have nothing to do with the smell. The idea of seeing Falco again today fills him with a shamed sort of dread. _And he's my partner in FI, too. Fuck. _

…

The bus approaches slowly, a faint yellow light gradually fading into sight and growing larger as it travels up the road, finally materializing with a screech of air brakes in front of Fox's driveway. The door hisses open and he climbs gratefully up the steps, dropping into a seat and shrugging off his backpack as the bus pulls away again. Fox takes a quick look around in the dim light, but the bus is mostly empty. _That's because most peoples' parents get dressed before noon and can give them a ride,_ he thinks wryly. He pulls out his music player and leans back in his seat, folding himself inside a cocoon of sleepy darkness.

After what feels like seconds the bus jerks to a stop and Fox pulls himself blearily to his feet and struggles off the bus and into the small herd of bedraggled students outside the high school. He's pushing through the throng of damp bodies when someone tugs at his jacket. He half turns, unable to stop himself from being pushed onward. "Wolf?"

Wolf's expression is dark. "Hey," he grunts, not meeting Fox's eyes. "You're going to have to find a new partner for flight day."

"Why?" asks Fox, choosing not to mention that he already has one.

"I'm suspended," Wolf growls. "Two days. I'll be back in class on Monday. I need you to get me the homework for our classes until then."

"Sure, but why did you get suspended?"

Wolf's scowl deepens. "No fucking reason. It's Dan Horwitz, the piece of shit junior."

"What did he do?" asks Fox warily, making an effort to break away from the flow of students.

Wolf hunches his shoulders, following Fox away from the main entrance. "You know I don't smoke, right, Fox? Well, shit, I smoke cigarettes, but nothing stronger."

"I guess," Fox says, taken off guard.

"Well, I don't," says Wolf, and the firmness in his tone makes Fox look up. "It's a fucking slippery slope. People, _good_ people, get screwed up by that kind of thing. Sure, I joke about it sometimes, everybody does. But I want to make sure you know it's not me."

Fox can see the emotion in his friend's eyes, and the sight of it causes his mental picture of Wolf to shift a little. He nods slowly. "I understand," he says.

"Well, Dan Horwitz is this asshole junior creep who I let use my locker once to put his cageball stuff in. Turns out that's not all he's been keeping in there. So I get dragged down to the office yesterday and they tell me they found a bunch of rolling papers and shit in there. I told them I haven't opened my locker since the beginning of the year, but … " He shakes his head, his brow furrowing angrily. "They told me I had in-school suspension today and tomorrow, and that was the end of that. No flight day. Sorry, Fox."

"What did Aspen say?"

"Oh, he was pissed. He didn't say too much, but I could tell he wanted to hit someone."

"You mean he wanted to hit you?"

"What? No, he was ready to tear the principal a new one. He knew the shit wasn't mine, but you know they never listen to him. He's just as much of a joke in this school as I am."

"No one thinks you're a joke," says Fox, surprised to hear the bitterness in his friend's voice.

"Yeah, maybe not to you," says Wolf, turning away. He looks off toward the crowd of students pressing into the shelter of the front doors, his face creased and his brow drawn. "The people in this school are assholes, Fox," he says simply. "The only reason I'm here is FI, and they take that away from me just because they see _this_," he makes a sweeping gesture at himself. "And they think _drug __addict, trash, criminal. _As if nobody who doesn't have a walk-in closet full of clothes and good grades in math and parents who come to PTO meetings has ever wanted something _better_." He twists the last word in his mouth, spitting it out laden with anger and sadness.

Fox reaches up, laying a hand on Wolf's shoulder. He feels his friend shiver through his jacket and gives his shoulder a squeeze. "That's not the way everyone is. The people who are like that aren't even worth talking to. And you won't be gone long. Aspen knows it's not your fault, he won't mark you down. It sucks, and it's not right, but it's just a couple of assholes. Don't forget about your friends."

Wolf smiles a little. "Yeah. Now get outta' here, you don't want to be late for math."

Fox snorts. "Right. I'd hate to miss it." He gives Wolf's shoulder one parting squeeze, then turns back toward the school.

"Hey, Fox," Wolf calls after him. "You gonna make me a copy of that record?"

"Yeah," Fox calls back. "I'll do it today. Get inside before you freeze, dumbass." When he looks back over his shoulder though, he sees Wolf heading off toward the parking lot instead. As Fox watches, Wolf falls into step beside another figure he can barely make out through the rain. He frowns, squinting at the distant forms. _Katt? Is that Katt Monroe? _He turns back around, narrowly avoiding getting run over by a cluster of students. He smiles to himself. _I guess his day won't be all bad._

…

Half-way through fifth period Fox is beginning to doubt he'll be able to say the same about himself. Chemistry and math have gone by abysmally as usual, the subjects seeming to make conscious efforts to be completely unlearnable. Both teachers have announced a test the next day, and Fox's language teacher has assigned an essay due Monday on a topic Fox can't remember. _School_ is working itself into a solid mass inside his head, a mire that bears down on him, crushing him to the floor. He barely notices when the bell rings and his feet drag him out into the hall and down the stairs to the FI classroom, right next to the stairwell in the most remote corner of the school.

He takes his usual seat, avoiding everybody's eyes. He particularly avoids the gaze of the blue-feathered avian in the center of the room, settling his head down on his desk and staring blankly at the front wall. He ignores too the sudden pounding of his heart and the apprehension building within him. He's dreading talking to Falco, dreading facing the intense awkwardness that he felt for no reason the day before. _Not to mention that he hates me for some reason. Probably because I made such an ass out of myself. What the hell was I even thinking?_

The bell rings, and sergeant Aspen gets up from his chair and shuts the door. He turns to face the class. "Today is maintenance day," he says, looking around at the room full of slowly drying students. "Because tomorrow is flight day, and you can't fly with a broken Arwing. Grab your stuff, we're going to the Garage. Hey!" he barks, in answer to the grumbled protest. "Stow that. Arwings work perfectly well in the rain, so you do too while you're in this class. Now get moving!"

Fox shoulders his bag and falls into the front of the line as the class makes their way out the nearest exit and into rain that has shown no signs of letting up. Aspen leads them around the school and up a short path up the hill into the sparse woods behind the school. A few paces inside the pines is the Garage, a squat building with a few unbroken windows and a low, corrugated iron roof which amplifies the sound of the rain like a drum skin.

Aspen pulls open the hefty wooden door, a relic of a barn somewhere, and pulls a dangling chain. Light strips in the ceiling flicker on, bathing the inside of the Garage with watery light. The body of an Arwing dominates the left side of the room. Its wings are gone, one of which lies on a table next to the body. The armored chassis has been stripped off, exposing the skeleton and shining organs of the spacecraft. Low tables are spread over the rest of the floor, a different chunk of machinery on top of each one. "Alright," says Aspen as the class clusters inside and tries to shake the water off. "Each table has a group's name on it. You've got fifty minutes to figure out what you're looking at it, what's wrong with it, fix it and get it back on the ship." He looks at his watch, then back up at the shivering students. "What are you still standing here for? Go!"

Fox finds his table near the back of the Garage, and next to his name the inevitable _Falco Lombardi_. He puts his hands down on the cool metal work surface, letting out a slow breath through his nose. A sudden cough makes him look up, into the angled face of the person he had been hoping to avoid. "Fox," says Falco.

"Sorry," says Fox hurriedly, his heart sinking. "I was about to go and get the-"

"Hey," says Falco. Fox meets his eyes again, and although they look angry, the anger doesn't seem to be directed at him. "I … _I'm_ sorry," Falco says, and it sounds as if he's struggling to push the words out. "For yesterday. It's not … it wasn't right. I know you just wanted to help, I didn't mean to be … the way I was." He looks at Fox, the anger in his eyes mixing with something else, something like a plea.

Fox's insides slowly disintegrate, forming a warm dust that falls gently down to his feet. "It's alright," he barely manages to say.

Falco shakes his head. "No, it's not. You're the only one who's bothered to talk to me since I've got here, I mean actually _talked_ to me, not just 'here's the homework, this is your locker.' It's important."

"Apology accepted," says Fox, wishing he could think of something better to say but unable to find any words.

"Good," says Falco, a hint of a smile raising the corner of his beak and sending a warm tingling through Fox's chest. He joins Fox around the other side of the table and looks down at the dismembered piece of Arwing on the table before them. "So, what the hell is this thing?"

"Uh," Fox explains. _Get yourself together,_ he berates himself furiously. _What's the problem? _Shaking his head slightly, he leans in to examine the apparatus. A trio of large coils are sandwiched between two thick plates, a mess of tubes and wires connecting them. "It looks like a G-diffuser," he says at last. "It's a, well, it's a thing that keeps the gravitational energy down during atmospheric flights."

"So what's wrong with it?"

"I don't know," admits Fox. "We're going to need some tools to test that, and having a diagram of the part would help too."

The two head to the tool bench on the right side of the room, where Fox selects a wide array of various types of tools, along with a blueprint of the G-diffuser. Back at their table he and Falco go through the process of checking for malfunctions, Fox doing his best to explain each step to his partner, who watches intently as Fox runs scanners and twists valves and taps things and reconnects wires. The problem is found, a faulty connection between the induction sensors and the diffuser coils. Fox picks up his pace, Falco joining in as the clock winds down and the rain pounds unheeded outside. The connection is re-established, and they rush the diffuser to the Arwing. Fox and Falco strip off their jackets and slide under the Arwing's belly. Fox locates the hole where the G-diffuser belongs, and while Falco holds it in place he fixes it into its niche. His fingers fly across the wires, snapping the cables' connectors back together as fast as he can. When they finally push themselves back out from under the ship their hands and faces are smudged with black grease and there are five minutes left on the clock.

Fox grins, turning to Falco, who meets his expression with a satisfied smile and a raised eyebrow. "Not bad, huh?"

"Pretty damn good," agrees Fox, watching most of the other groups struggling frantically with their pieces. "You sure you've never worked on a starship before?"

Falco shakes his head. "Nope. Never even seen one before today."

"What made you want to join FI then?" asks Fox.

Falco is silent for a while. "I don't know," he says at last. "Something about it just seemed right to me. I like the idea of flying. I thought this might be a way to, well …" He trails off, his gaze dropping to the floor. "You know when someone tells you you can't do something, that you won't be able to, and it just makes you want to do the thing more? It was like that." He scuffs his heel against the cement floor, his face clouding over. "I don't need anyone telling me what I can't do. I'll figure that out for myself."

"You seem good at it so far," offers Fox. Tomorrow's flight day. That's when you'll really get a feel for what it's like to be a pilot. The closest you'll get here, anyway."

"Yeah?" asks Falco, cocking his head. "What's it like?"

Fox thinks about it. "It's not like anything else," he decides. "It's not really something you can describe with words. When you're in the cockpit you feel it, and it either speaks to you, or it doesn't. I guess that's when you know if you're a pilot or not." He thinks back to his first time in the simulator, to the rush of adrenaline and joy, the weightlessness of tremendous speed and the freedom of flight. The memory makes him smile a little, and when he looks up Falco is watching him. His ears tingle and he looks away again, a little bit embarrassed at himself. "That's what it's like for me, anyway," he half-mumbles. When he raises his eyes though, he sees that Falco is nodding.

"I know what you mean," he says slowly. "At least, I think I do."

"Freeze!" Aspen's yell echoes through the Garage, creating instant silence. Someone drops something with a loud clatter and a muffled string of swearwords. "Time's up," barks the sergeant. "Step away from the Arwing and put down anything that ain't finished."

A murmur of conversation rises again to fill the silence, punctuated by frustrated c_lank_s as unfinished parts are dropped back on metal tables. The sergeant strides to the Arwing and climbs the ladder, dropping down into the cockpit. Fox watches as he flicks a few switches and the cockpit lights begin to glow. "Okay, electronics are a go," he says. "But I didn't break that, so no credit to any of you. Let's see … Engines … Holy hell, what's wrong with the engines? Duncan, Rolfe, you half-wits, you've actually made them _worse!"_

Behind Fox someone hisses: "I _told_ you it was the other way round!"

Aspen continues his check. "Fuel line is good, nice work Lee and Reginald. Inertial dampers not so good, there's a connection problem here … I'm not getting anything from the torpedo tubes at all. Oh well, it's not as if a fighter needs torpedoes. The lateral thrusters are _almost_ fine, but the input is inverted and I'm going to get left when I hit right, so no cigar. This is the second time with this right-left thing, Davis. G-diffuser is perfect, thank you McCloud and Lomardi. On to the flaps … "

Aspen continues the systems check and Fox turns grinning to Falco, who meets him with a cool half-smile. Something about that smile makes Fox's insides tingle and he turns away quickly, confusion mixing with his happiness.

Finished with his check, Aspen clambers out of the cockpit, shaking his head as he descends the ladder. "Some of that was quite good, some of it was … " He shudders. "Eugh. Pack up your tools, this place needs to be cleaned up in two minutes. Tomorrow is flight day, and some of you are damn lucky you're not flying in Arwings you had to repair yourselves."

…

After they have packed up their things and returned their tools to the peg-board Fox and Falco stand by the giant barn door waiting for the rest of the class to finish. Fox's eyes roam around the room with apparent idleness, settling on Falco for a moment. Fox feels the warm tingling feeling again, rising up unbidden from somewhere inside his stomach, and he creases his brow and turns away. _What's going on?_ He wonders again, but is unable to make anything of the odd, almost queasy feeling. He pushes the door open a bit to let in a draft of fresh air and is greeted by sparkling sunlight. The rain has stopped, and the light reflects off of the green foliage through countless mirrored droplets. Fox smiles a little despite the twisting strangeness in his gut. He suddenly feels extremely happy.

"Oh, _now_ it stops," grumbles Falco beside him.

"At least we don't have to walk back in it," says Fox. He turns away from the door as Aspen begins yelling at the class to hurry up and get in line. Distracted by the sergeant's tirade, he doesn't notice the nameless empty feeling fading away.


End file.
